


Lessons I Learned in the Dark

by freneticfloetry



Category: Covert Affairs
Genre: Character of Color, Disabled Character, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-16
Updated: 2010-12-16
Packaged: 2017-10-13 17:20:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/139727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freneticfloetry/pseuds/freneticfloetry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Auggie Anderson doesn't have the sense he was born with. But he makes do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lessons I Learned in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

  * For [whiteraven1606](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiteraven1606/gifts).



> Spoilers through 'When The Levee Breaks." Characters are property of the USA Network, Doug Liman, et al… Just taking them out for a quick holiday spin. Huge thanks to my support system - Jules, hauntedd, darkmuse_ic, and ladygloria.

Auggie dreams of deserts.

He builds them from scratch and sculpts them like clay, in full-spectrum high-def, splashed with mosaic sunrises and watercolor skies and clouds spun of Chihuly glass. He works with wide eyes, sketching the sweeping dunes and painting miles of fresco horizon, until he's surrounded by saturation and living in light. In a kaleidoscope world, glazed and gleaming in every shade he can remember, with grains of gilded gold beneath his boots.

When the sand goes nuclear, he sees red. The richest, purest red he's ever known.

Then he blinks, and sees nothing at all.

 

He maps the new space in paces, measured in steady steps and slow sweeps of his cane, making a mental picture of sonar and vibration. The laser matrix pings in his earpiece and pulses in his palm, tracing the topography, and he stretches out his free hand to follow a curve of cool metal.

"Eames," he mutters, pursing his lips. "Not bad."

"That chair ate a healthy chunk of my facilities budget. Aim higher than 'not bad.'"

He turns a tight circle to the door, the edge of the desk at his left, and she shifts inside in silent strides, even in her ever-present heels. Joan moves like an avalanche, a fluid force of nature, nothing but a whisper until she's right on top of you. It's strategic, he suspects, like everything else she does – she all-too-readily gives away her position when he's in her good graces, reaching out with her voice well before she's within startling range. Two years of training has given him ears like a bird dog – or at least better than the average beagle – and, most days, he never hears her coming until she speaks.

Today, something sounds at shoulder height, tinkling like wind chimes, and he tilts his head and pulls his brows together.

"Joan." He nods, pocketing the cane. "Love the necklace. New?"

The moving parts peal again, making muffled music, dulled by what must be her fingers. "That's almost impressive," she says, dry but not brittle, and he'd thank Arthur for the early warning system if he were looking to lose a limb anytime soon. "Just came by to check on the move."

There's a hitch in more than just her voice, and it makes him smirk. "Did you?"

She lets it slide, which is probably best for the _good graces_ portion of the proceedings. "I need you to sign off on the tech inventory and double-check the server setup. Everything present and accounted for?"

"Hardware's all here. I'll get you a rundown. Beyond that, there's just a couple boxes left to bring over. Mainly personal effects." He props a hip on the desk, crosses his arms. "But you didn't drop by to talk about my missing Mingus."

The beat that follows lasts a few seconds, less, but Joan never hesitates for hesitation's sake – even sidelined, she still plays the game. Mission-minded and constantly calculating, weighing risk and reward and every factor in between.

"Annie," she says, aiming for matter-of-fact and missing by a mile. A spy by any other name would be standard operating procedure, but something about their eager new recruit unnerves his boss in a way Auggie's unaccustomed to.

He's almost tempted to take a stab at cold comfort by comparison. She's only been willingly benched. He's out of rotation entirely.

"You like her. Don't you?"

Back in cool control, she makes it more begrudging than anything. But there's some thoughtful thrown in, even a touch of amusement, and he shrugs.

"She's a good kid," he replies. "They're so cute at that age, still chock full of morals and ideals. It's a shame how quickly that changes. Remind me to start a pool."

"You'd have an unfair advantage, courtesy of inside intel. I want you to keep an eye on her."

"Figuratively, I assume." He frowns, shifting his weight. "As eyes go, are we talking your standard honed handler or more… 'the call is coming from inside the house'?"

"Consider it a precaution." She speaks carefully, and it's a strange sound from the receiving end – usually, she doesn't bother. "Annie is an asset."

"Annie is an operative. It's conflicting terminology."

"To the agency," she backtracks, a shade too sharply. "Annie's an asset to the agency. Her linguistic skill set alone is… impressive, to say the least. She's shown a lot of promise, and we believe that's worth investing in. But she's green."

"I'm telling you, it's the morals."

"Be that as it may, she's going to need some guidance while she gets her bearings. She has good instincts, we've seen that. We just can't have her flying off the rails in a fit of wide-eyed integrity." The fabric of the day's power suit rustles as she steps forward. "You know this place inside and out, and you know what it takes to survive here. The two of you have clearly established a connection. That makes you the logical choice."

"Something tells me that was more flattering on paper." He straightens, shoving his hands into his pockets. "And since this isn't a democracy, I'm going to pretend that you didn't use bribery by task chair to get me to babysit your pet project."

Joan puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezes. "She's probably en route already. Make sure she gets settled." He salutes as she backs away, and he can hear the smile in her voice. And the relief. "It is a good chair."

"I'm sure it is an ergonomic marvel of modern seating."

"Better," she muses. "Still not worth the price tag, but you're getting there."

"I haven't even taken the thing for a test drive," he says wryly. "What do you expect me to do, write it a sonnet?"

But she's gone, necklace trilling like tiny bells, leaving behind all the things she didn't say. And there's no time to wonder what she's hiding – he has Mingus to move and a new assignment to intercept.

With a sigh and a shake of his head, he taps the top of the leather chair.

"The things I do for my country."

 

It takes a fair amount of fast talking to get Liza out the door. But number nineteen lingers, so cloying it coats his throat in a cloud of pulpy vetiver and powdery iris, and the chemical tang on his tongue makes his stomach turn. He hasn't eaten in what feels like forever – they'd grabbed concession-stand sandwiches before hopping the connecting train, limp lettuce crammed between dry bread and day-old turkey.

Locked in that cramped compartment with Natasha, pulse going a mile a minute and a nicked Nexus card burning a hole in his pocket, it'd been one of the best meals he's ever had.

The milk in his fridge is dangerously close to the point of no return, but it's good enough for him to choke down a bowl of cereal that tastes more like ash than anything. He's rinsing his spoon in the sink and reaching over to program the dishwasher when the front door slides open on its track.

"While it is technically later," he says, trying his damndest not to groan, "still not a good time."

"Noted."

He leans heavily on the sink, letting the groan slip free. "Does _everyone_ have a key to my apartment?"

"The door was open," Jai says flatly. "I'd ask who you were expecting, but considering the day's events and in the name of plausible deniability, I'm not sure I want to know."

"Not the worst idea you've ever had," Auggie mumbles, turning to the island. If the timing had been any closer, he'd have a lot more to answer for than Tash. "Sorry to disappoint, since I know how much you love playing errand boy, but I debriefed with Joan before I left the DPD."

Jai chuckles, though there's nothing amusing about it. "I'm sure you did." He moves farther inside, and when he speaks again, it's vaguely from the vicinity of the credenza.

"Not quite the gallery-worthy collection you had hanging before."

Auggie shifts toward the exposed brick wall and its stark art installation, shakes his head. "I'm not really in a position to appreciate the finer things anymore, am I?" It comes out harsher than he'd intended, with none of the humor he had in mind, and he smiles tightly to make up the difference. "Most of it went to Chicago."

He swallows and thinks of his mother, of her hard-earned, much-loved pieces – Pollock and Hockney and Picasso and Chagall, Matisse lithographs and Mies van der Rohe plans, even a set of late Dali sketches – and imagines the empty walls they must've left behind. There's a plaque with her name on it, somewhere in the Modern Wing, running down the donations made in her memory.

They'd wanted the Chiparus, in its fabled large mold cast, and he'd been selfish. Two and a half feet of marble and onyx, of carved ivory and embossed bronze, stashed in the back of his closet. But he can't part with it, not when he can follow the fluid lines with his fingers and read the dotted details like Braille.

Not when it had been her favorite.

"What does it say?" Jai asks, oblivious, and Auggie snaps his head up, blinks like it'll clear away the fog he'll have forever.

"What does it _matter_?" He pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers. "Is there a reason you're standing in my living room after hours, or are you actually here to make bad small talk?"

Jai rounds the peninsula to Auggie's side, shoes scuffing the hardwood as he stops.

"I wanted to apologize."

"For breaking into my apartment," Auggie scoffs, "or just for being you?"

There's a rush of air that means he's smiling – Auggie remembers the telltale snort before that broad, begrudging grin. The flash of straight teeth, starkly white against his skin, even as his eyes rolled. "Annie was confident that you could carry out this op, that you had a plan in place. I was… less than convinced. I sold you short, and I'm sorry for that."

"An apology from the man who can do no wrong. Do me a favor and check the sky for flying farm animals."

Auggie leans back to the counter, crosses his legs at the ankles. "I tend to be underestimated at every turn. Can't imagine why." He raises an eyebrow, feigning thoughtfulness. "Is it because I'm anemic, do you think?"

He expects an easy laugh that doesn't come, and adds his surprise to the pile that's been growing since Jai stepped through the door.

"It wasn't about…" Jai starts, idles. "Whatever doubts I may have had, they stemmed from your connection to Natasha."

Auggie clenches his jaw and chooses his next words carefully. "My connection to Natasha got us the hack. Which – correct me if I'm wrong here – was the point of the whole operation."

"You have to admit, with your history – "

"I am perfectly capable of doing my job when 'history' is a factor," Auggie cuts in. "I work with you, don't I? Most days we even play nice."

It's a low blow, and he knows it. But he hadn't set this ball rolling.

Jai sniffs. "That was different."

"History's history. But if you really want to weigh it…" Auggie holds his hands out, palms up. "Long-term relationship with a woman I'll never see again, versus drunken hookup with someone I work with every day. It could go either way, really."

There's movement, Jai rocking back on his heels. It doesn't take much to picture his expression.

"I know it couldn't have been easy," he says quietly. "I just… wanted to make sure you were okay."

"Well, you shouldn't have bothered. But I'll be sure to lock up behind you."

Auggie straightens, steps toward the door and hopes he'll take the hint. It's a step too far – Jai puts a palm on his chest as he tries to pass, and his eyes slip closed before he knows it's happening.

He's been caught off guard already, though it seems like a lifetime ago – Tash's mouth crashing forward to collide with his, the rest of it blurring by as they rocked with the train. And in that moment, he'd flashed back to similar surprise, to a smile and a slow burn and the strange sensation of stubble. But this time, Jai just hangs there, hovers, hand splayed over his heart.

"Auggie... "

He does the rest himself, falling forward and closing the distance, managing to hit his mark with mostly-true aim. Jai tenses for the space of a breath, then presses his fingertips against Auggie's chest, slides the hand low to clutch his hip.

The first time – the last time – he'd tasted like a beautiful mistake. Like draft beer and bourbon chasers, the slice of orange after his second Blue Moon. It's all Auggie can remember clearly, between the first flash in dark eyes and the fumbling rush of it all; being buzzed from more than just the booze, drunk on brown skin and bad decisions.

Sober, he tastes like the contradiction he is. Sweet and spicy all at once, like curry powder and apple pie, and Auggie licks into his mouth, fingers curled around his face, and tries to forget.

Later, when the frenzy becomes furious, he tastes like desperation. Like denial.

They try to catch their breath in a tangle of damp sheets, together but separate, until Auggie swings his feet over the side to sit on the edge of the mattress, head in his hands.

The trail of firm fingers on his back makes him jump, tracing the banner wound along his Special Forces shield. _De oppresso liber._ He's only seen it once, trapped between two mirrors that made an endless echo of his reflection. Briefly, his thoughts turn to the timer – he's drained, flat-out weary, but it's earlier than he thought, if the lights are still on.

"Are you gonna tell me what this one says?"

A laugh crawls up his throat, bitter and breaking, like a bad aftertaste.

"To free the oppressed," he answers, and doesn't think the irony is lost on either of them. The hand falls away, and he presses his fingers into his eyes, hard enough to see stars if he could still see anything at all, and tries not to ponder what kind of person this makes him.

As if Tash weren't bad enough.

"This was a mistake."

Auggie snorts, dropping his hands to hang his wrists over his knees. That was supposed to be his line.

"Now where have I heard that before? I guess this makes it just a _two_ -time thing."

"That's not fair," Jai bites out. "You started this."

"What are you, four?" Auggie turns to prop a bent leg on the bed. "You know what isn't fair? Whatever the hell you're doing with Annie."

Jai rolls to his feet, the mattress shifting under his weight, and starts dressing in what sure sounds like a hurry. "She doesn't need you to fight her battles, Auggie. Annie's a big girl."

"'Girl' being the operative word." Auggie cringes before the last syllable is done, guilt making it more callous than he ever intended, and the flurry of motion stops abruptly. "And speaking of unfair… That's not what I meant. Not the way it came out."

Silence fills the seconds, stretches. It's weighted, almost tangible, and for the first time he wonders what life must be like for Jai, caught between two worlds in every aspect of his life that matters.

"Look…" he starts again, reaching for the right words. "No matter how many times we do this, I can't tell you who you are. Whatever conclusion you come to, you just need to be okay with you. But until you take a step back and figure this out for yourself, I am asking you to leave Annie out of it. Please."

It takes a long moment, but Jai starts moving again, already on his way out. "I'll see you at the shop," he mutters. Then he stops in the doorway, tapping a hand on the jamb. "Auggie – "

"Already ancient history."

He taps again, continues on, and Auggie licks his lips, tastes the lingering salt of sweat-slick skin, and gets up to lock the damn door.

 

His midday coffee run takes ten minutes, tops, but there's a ghost at his desk when he gets back to tech ops, swiveling steadily on very expensive casters. Choking down a mouthful of fragrant dark roast, he clears his throat.

"You're in my chair."

There's no rush to get up, and Auggie's fist tightens around his cane. "Sorry 'bout that," the ghost says, slowly rising and sounding anything but.

Auggie doesn't know Ben Mercer from a hole in the wall, but he kind of hates him on principle.

He slips into his seat and sets the cup down at his ten, logging back into the system and trying to ignore the tremor that marks Mercer copping a squat on the other side of his desk.

"Shouldn't you have a heavily-armed escort around here somewhere?"

"I wouldn't have walked back in here if I planned on going anywhere. They know that." He raps the desktop with his knuckles, once, twice, then moves away from the terminal. "Arthur says you're the man to see about a tech outfit."

"Arthur hasn't cleared you for anything but comms," Auggie counters, "so 'outfit' is a bit of a stretch."

The other man is silent for a long moment, so still that Auggie has trouble tracking him. He'd be impressed under any other circumstances, but this is a simple case of training that trumps his own.

He may not know Ben Mercer, but he knows the type.

His unit only had one guy go through SFSC – Drew Garrett, a ginger kid from Nowhere, Ohio with an unhealthy addiction to pistachios. And Puccini, which was more Auggie's speed. There was nothing quite like the sight of a man systematically stripping his M21 to the sweeping strains of Madame Butterfly, but mutual music appreciation had been where the similarities ended – Garrett had been the odd man out to Auggie's leader of the pack, as is the nature of a sharpshooter. But when it all came down, he was one of them. One piece of a puzzle, one part of a whole.

Snipers, true snipers, are a different animal entirely. Proverbial lone wolves, borne of promise and precision, bred to be practically invisible.

And Ben is the best. Or so he hears.

"From what I hear, you and Annie are pretty close."

It comes out of left field, from his eight at the elbow, damn near on top of him, and it takes everything he's got not to react. "Close enough."

He's suddenly grateful for the GPS he'd given Annie – there's no way he could've tagged this guy under the radar.

Auggie shoves away from the edge, quick enough for the chair to clip his new shadow somewhere that hopefully hurts, and something settles around him with the rush of air, through the earth and herbs of his still-steaming Sumatra.

A whiff of war. Sharp, strong, so sudden that it sends him back to endless seas of sand.

He has no idea how long this man's been without a weapon, but he still smells like the sniper he is.

"And you really think it's a good idea to send her out there with me?"

Auggie smiles tightly. "I don't think anything about you is a good idea. But it's not my call." He reaches into a drawer, fingers fumbling for a plastic case, and pulls the earpiece free. "Two-way bud, integrated mic," he says, holding it out. "Standard issue, click on, click off. And watch yourself – the EMF's traceable within range."

"Thanks," Ben drawls, snatching it free, "but it's not my first rodeo."

"Yeah, well, tech's changed while you've been out in the cold, cowboy." Auggie reaches for radio storage, edging away to escape the lingering scent in the air, but there's a new tide with every breath. "Case in point: new shortwave."

Ben's moving again, almost without a trace. But Auggie's got a bead on him now – cold sweat and camo paint, bore oil bleeding from every pore – and he picks up the trail like a bloodhound.

"So you're telling me Joan's go-to guy can't pull some strings?"

"Not her call, either," Auggie mumbles, checking the levels. "Channels are secure and monitored around the clock. You have a problem, go to eighteen for emergency extraction."

He's hoping to end this here, before he starts thinking again. About Annie, and why she wants to do this. About what could happen once she's half a world away, depending on this man for cover when he's only been trained to cover himself.

"Annie isn't ready for this. And you – "

Auggie slams the drawer shut. "Here's all you need to know about me and Annie," he says, so even that it's hard to believe he's shaking. "She's my friend. It is literally my job to protect her. And however handy you may be with a gun, I can end you in ways you can't even imagine."

He rounds the desk to slap the radio to Ben's chest, and it's a direct hit.

"Have a good trip."

 

He'd called in every favor he had to arrange the MedEvac, and told himself that it was enough. But once word came down that they were back in US airspace, en route to the nearest ICU, he'd headed out the door before the skids hit the helipad.

He's been sitting here since, inhaling disinfectant and death. Camped outside a room that holds a ghost made of gunpowder, with the handful of silent people who've kept all his secrets.

Joan paces without end, her necklace chiming as she moves down and back again in slow, steady steps. She hasn't spoken, and he hasn't pushed. There are questions in his head that she'll never answer. But he'll ask, before this is all over, and it'll be enough that she wants to.

Jai brings bad coffee from the hallway machine, handing him a hot cup and avoiding his hand entirely. Auggie sips it carefully, grimaces at the grit of instant grounds, and tries not to think about the team that Jai and Ben were, once upon a time.

Annie has no concept of personal space. Never has. Not with him.

She curls into the next chair, one arm threaded through his, head buried in the side of his arm. There was a point, early on, when he wondered where she'd learned little tricks – sighted leads, directional reference, even hints of echolocation. But she'd never volunteered the information, and he'd kept his curiosity to himself.

Like so many other things.

Her hands surround his like a cocoon, one thumb smoothing circles on the inside of his wrist. He swallows hard, tells himself that _friend_ is just a word and she's just an assignment, but that hasn't worked since Switzerland.

His mind conjures Joan's face, Jai's, and for the first time, he wishes he could fill in a blank with Annie's. That the last thing he ever saw wasn't Drew Garrett's fiery hair going up in flames.

No one's ever touched him the way Annie does. And he's never bothered to return the favor.

She sighs into his shoulder, and he sets his coffee aside, slides his free hand over hers and sinks his face into the crown of her hair.

"I hate hospitals," he groans. "There are five doctors in my immediate family, and I hate hospitals."

She stiffens for a moment, her thumb stilling. But it picks up its pace again, strumming to the beat of his pulse, and he thinks of the writing on the wall that only he can read. Of his father the chiropractor and his brothers the clones. Of his mother the art teacher, who'd taught him everything she knew, then wasted away in a bed in a hospital that smelled just like this one.

Annie smells like grapefruit and rosemary, and he wants to tell her everything.

He breathes deep, holds on tight, and paints her a picture.

**Author's Note:**

> The sculpture in question is Demetre Chiparus' [Starfish](http://www.hickmet.com/sculpture.asp?piece=Chiparus-757), which is one of my favorite pieces ever. And - for the curious - the Braille art in Auggie's apartment reads "love."


End file.
